


Heartless

by Ernmark (M_Moonshade)



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Other, monsters run on metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-31 05:30:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12125583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_Moonshade/pseuds/Ernmark
Summary: Damien hasn't been the same since he killed the lizard in the swamp.Rilla is starting to worry he never will be.





	Heartless

Rilla can see Damien’s approach through the bars of her thistle cage, and she knows something is wrong the moment she lays eyes on him. He rides through the swamp like a hurricane given human form, imposing even without the bow in his hand or the giant of a knight riding at his side. Like a storm, the whole of the swamp seems to go still at his approach. Like a storm, she can taste the change in the air before it hits.

She swallows.

“Frightened, little human?” asks the lizard who has no idea what’s coming for him.

She looks him in his violet eyes. “My fiancé is a Knight of the Queen. The greatest of her Knights.” Or tied for the title, but really, Sir Angelo is _right there_. 

The lizard doesn’t stand a chance.

And maybe he recognizes that, because his bony brows knit and his frill tightens around his throat, and his presence seems to shrink into itself as he turns to look again at the approaching knights.

“Your fiancé,” he repeats quietly, as if that’s the most important word she said. “Of course.”

Just like that, all the swagger and self-aggrandizement is gone, and he looks almost… sad. Like he knows what’s going to happen to him just as well as Rilla does.

She feels almost sorry for him. “If you want to get out alive, this is your last chance to run.”

“No,” he says, not turning away from the oncoming storm. “There is only one way this ends.”

In the next moment, he’s gone.

The moment he’s out of sight, Rilla descends on the bars of her cage, bending back each of the wicked spines one at a time, then yanking at the thick woody stems until they start to budge. This enclosure is meant for something bigger than her– one of those giant rats, maybe– and she doesn’t have to move the bars far before she’s made enough room to slip through.

She can hear the sounds of confrontation outside– first declarations and then shouting, the twang of bowstrings, the cries as blood is spilled into the swamp.

She grabs one of the lizard’s knives off the wall and takes off running. If anything happens to Damien, she swears she’s going to skin that lizard herself–

But she doesn’t have to.

By the time she sets foot outside, the lizard is on the ground, already up to his waist in swamp water. He looks up at Damien, almost pleading, as the Knight of the Citadel draws back the bowstring.

His only act of mercy is in how fast the arrow pierces the beast’s heart.

* * *

”Sir Angelo, are you sure you don’t need me to take a look at you?”

“Nonsense,” he declares, all bluster as usual. “I’m made of stronger stuff than a few little swamp nettles. Ha!” Almost as an afterthought, he adds, “Besides, I was merely the second in the duel. The fight and the victory were all Sir Damien’s!” He claps Damien on the back with one enormous hand. “And I still owe you a drink for that. Don’t think I’ve forgotten. But first I must make a report to the Queen for us both.”

“Yes, thank you,” Damien says.

“Take good care of him, Rilla,” Sir Angelo says, and he rides off, his horse’s hooves leaving divots the size of dinner plates in their wake.

“As for you,” Rilla says, rounding on Damien. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.” She shepherds him into her hut and onto a bench, and he sits while she gathers supplies. A good deal of the furniture is broken and several of her jars of medicines are smashed, but she manages to find enough to work with. “How are you feeling? Dizzy at all? Lightheaded?”

“No,” he says.

“How about drowsy? Cold?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?” She sets down the supplies and lays her hand against his forehead. There’s grit from swampwater and dried sweat, but he doesn’t feel clammy or chilled. His skin doesn’t look particularly pale or ashen, his breathing is normal, and if his pupils are a bit enlarged, it’s no more than is normal for the dim light of her hut. “As much as that monster cut you up, I’d half expect you to be in shock. You’ve lost a lot of…blood.”

She frowns.

He hasn’t, though. She didn’t notice it before, but now that she’s up close and really looking for it, the cuts look oddly… clean. Sure, there’s a bit of bleeding, but not nearly as much as there should be.

“I’m alright,” he says.

“Are you, though?” She collects a few blood samples and sets them aside. “You’ve been awfully quiet.”

“I’m tired from the fight,” he says, which is maybe the longest sentence he’s said since he killed the monster.

And that’s just it: usually after Damien’s killed a monster, he spends the next few hours immortalizing it in poetry and telling anyone who will sit still long enough to listen. He gets excited. He gets giddy. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen him go quiet like this.

So what makes this monster any different from all the others?

Only one thought really comes to her mind. She mulls it over in silence while she cleans and binds his wounds.

“Damien,” she says quietly, “if you’re worried about me, don’t be. You saved me in a nick of time, just like I knew you would.”

His expression doesn’t change. So maybe that’s not what’s going on in his head.

She tries again. “That monster… it recognized you, when you came to rescue me.”

He looks up, but his expression is unreadable.

“Was that the monster you were going to duel? The one who stole your tranquility?”

His tone is carefully neutral. “Yes.” He doesn’t elaborate.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He shrugs as best he can while she’s wrapping the gash on his shoulder. “The beast is dead. What more is there to say?”

It’s such an awful non-answer that she wants to shout, but she keeps her voice soft. The last thing he needs right now is for her to lose her patience. So as soon as she finishes wrapping his shoulder, she tries another approach.

“Listen, Damien. When the monster took me, it was because of something I found in the woods while I was out with Marc. It had nothing to do with your duel.” She takes his hand in hers. “What happened isn’t your fault.”

“No,” he agrees. “The only one to blame was the lizard. And now he’s gone.” 

And maybe Rilla would say something to that, but her attention is drawn to Damien’s hands.

Strange. Normally she has no problem feeling his pulse racing under his skin, but now his heartbeat is calm. Weirdly calm. The only beat she can feel is the drum of hooves approaching outside.

“That will be Sir Angelo,” Damien says.

“Damien–”

He pulls his hand back. “Thank you for worrying about me, but I really am alright. All I need is a little rest.”

And maybe a night out with Sir Angelo _is_ what he needs. Maybe Rilla’s too spooked right now to take his pulse properly. Maybe a night of rest will be good for both of them.

She lets him go. After all, she can check up on him again tomorrow.

* * *

Or she could check up on him again, if Damien would come by. But the next day comes and goes, and he doesn’t.

When she stops by the keep the day after that, she’s told that he’s away on another mission, because apparently the Queen never heard of giving her knights time to recover from their injuries. 

She can’t get a hold of him the day after that, either, or the day after that. It’s almost a week before she sees him again; by then his injuries from the lizard are nearly healed, and a fresh batch has taken their places.

But he’s still quiet.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” she asks.

“Of course,” he says.

“You needn’t worry,” he says.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he says. “It was just a monster. I’ve killed hundreds just like it.”

And he always answers her just like that: in short, dry sentences that wouldn’t be out of place coming from the tight-lipped baker down the street, but this is _Damien_.

She’s still concerned about his weak heartbeat. She tries to take his hand casually, to check his pulse without making a big deal about it, but she can’t.

Not because she still can’t find his pulse point, but because she can’t hold onto him long enough to try. He keeps pulling away– and not in a way that feels conscious, either. It just seems like as soon as he’s holding his hand, he thinks of something else he’d rather be doing with it. There’s always an itch to scratch, a shirt to adjust, a bit of lint to pick away. She might not even have noticed if she weren’t trying so hard, but now that she’s paying attention, it seems almost deliberate.

But it isn’t. She can see in his eyes, he doesn’t even notice that he’s doing it.

A week ago he held her hand like it was a treasure. Now he barely lets her touch him at all.

* * *

Something is wrong.

Except it isn’t– not in a way that she would accept if she was hearing all of this from a patient. Because there aren’t real symptoms, so much as a general feeling of unwellness.

By all means, Damien is fine. He’s still going about hunting monsters and patrolling the jungle. That hasn’t changed. If anything, he’s even better at it than before. And when she asks, Damien insists that he isn’t distressed or unhappy at all. By all means, he feels perfectly fine.

But he’s not fine.

These days, Rilla is lucky to see him twice a month. His visits are always short and awkward, like he doesn’t know what to talk about. When he works himself into a panic, he doesn’t let Rilla hold him or sing to him– he just storms away on his own. He doesn’t speak his heart– he hasn’t since that night they spent dancing under Saint Damien’s Bells. He hasn’t asked her again when they’ll be married.

He hasn’t mentioned it at all since then, actually.

At night, Rilla reads Damien’s old poems by the light of a candle. He’s sent her so many over the years– some so bad they’re a little bit ridiculous, some overblown and tedious, some awkward and forced– but they’re all so very _Damien_ that it makes her heart ache.

Saints above, she misses his poems. Even the damn odes.

“You know,” she says when she manages to catch a few moments alone with him. “It’s been a while since you’ve brought me any new poetry. Have you been working on anything?”

He looks at her like she’s gone mad.

“What are you talking about?” he asks. “I don’t have time for such things.”

* * *

When Rilla arrives at the barracks for her meeting with Damien, she’s less surprised to find that he’s gone than she is at her own lack of disappointment. She’s stopped hoping that he’ll make time for her.

The realization leaves her uneasy.

“Rilla, it’s good to see you!”

At least someone’s happy she’s here.

“Hello, Sir Angelo,” she says, trying to smile before he lifts her off the ground in a bear hug.

“How are you?” he asks when he puts her down. “I can make you some tea, if you want. I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“It really does,” she says, sitting at the mess hall table while Sir Angelo fusses over the tea. “Not since I made you that antidote to the cockatrice venom, right?”

“That sounds right to me.” He pauses. “I hope you weren’t looking for Sir Damien. He’s off on another monster hunt. There really is no stopping that man.” He says it jovially, but it’s missing most of his usual bluster.

“It certainly seems to keep him busy,” she says, mostly to make conversation. “Honestly, I’m surprised I caught you in. If you’re not careful, he’ll break that tie of yours.”

Her stupid joke feels a lot less funny when she sees the look on his face.

“Oh, that? Ha.” She doesn’t know the last time she’s heard him sound _subdued_. “That tie was broken ages ago. Damien really is the greatest knight in the Citadel. Really, I’m surprised he didn’t mention it to you.”

“Did something happen?” Rilla asks. “I’m sure it doesn’t count if you were hurt–”

“Oh, no, nothing like that.” He offers her a cup of steaming green tea. “I just lapsed in my efforts, that’s all.”

Rilla frowns. “That doesn’t sound like you. Are you sure you’re alright?”

“It’s nothing like that.” He shrugs his enormous shoulders uneasily. “It’s true that our rivalry used to be one of my greatest pleasures, but it just isn’t much fun anymore.”

When he sits beside her, the bench creaks in protest.

“Damien’s ruthlessness is becoming legendary, you know,” Sir Angelo continues. “It feels like the jungle is almost empty. There aren’t any monsters left alive for miles.” He hesitates. “It’s a little eerie.”

Rilla takes a sip. The tea is scalding hot, burnt just enough to be bitter.

“Sir Angelo?” she asks. “Does Damien seem… different to you lately?”

“Lately?”

“Since his duel with the lizard, I mean.”

Sir Angelo’s broad shoulders sag. “I thought it was only my imagination.”

“I don’t think it is.” Her grip tightens on the cup. “I think he might be sick. I know he doesn’t look it, but he had all those open wounds, and he was up to his neck in swamp water. Maybe he was affected by something. Maybe he’s got some kind of infection and I missed it.”

“If you say so,” Sir Angelo says, laying a hand on her shoulder. “But Damien was acting strangely even before his duel.”

She looks up. “He was? How?” When he doesn’t answer right away, she grabs his hand. “Angelo, please. The more I know about his symptoms, the better I can understand them. Maybe I can do something about it.”

“I… I’m afraid I don’t know,” he admits. “I think he tried to explain it to me, in his own way, but… you know I don’t have a head for such things.” He bits his lip. “But he did give me a poem.”

“A poem? What does that have to do with anything?”

“He said to give it to you if something happened to him. And…” He’s reluctant. “I suppose something did happen to him, didn’t it?” He gives her shoulder a squeeze. “He said it was supposed to explain something. Maybe it will help.”

* * *

Rilla reads the poem over a hundred times.

Not because it’s difficult to parse– if anything, he made himself pretty clear, especially compared to some of his older stuff– but because she has a hard time wrapping her mind around what he’s trying to say.

And when she does, she reads over it again, because _this is it_ , isn’t it? This is his confession. His explanation. His goodbye.

This is the last poem Damien ever wrote her.

She keeps rereading it long after she’s committed it to memory, until her eyes droop and she nods off with the page still clutched in her hand and a few of the verses still floating through her head.

_Lord Arum swears I have a monster’s eyes_  
And now I fear that what he says is true  
That I’m one of the foul bests I despise  
Who loves a lizard as I cherish you.

_For you alone my heart beats in my breast_  
If not, then to Saint Damien I pray  
To pluck this loathsome traitor from my chest  
Before it leads me faithlessly astray

* * *

The moment Damien sets foot in the barracks, he finds Rilla sitting on his cot.

“Oh,” he says, only mildly surprised. “Rilla. I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

He would look good, if she didn’t know better. His posture is impeccable, his form rugged and toned in ways she can’t deny is striking, his uniform just slightly disheveled in a way that just barely breaks regulation without being slovenly, his fresh scars are just right to accentuate his features.

But his _face_.

His face is smooth, unstretched by any strong emotion. His brows lie flat over his eyes. His smile is polite, but it feels like something plastered over a blank wall.

For the first few moments, all she can say is his name, and even that sticks in her throat.

“Was there something you wanted?” he asks, shutting the door behind him. “It’s been a long day. If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to get some rest.”

She shuts her eyes– then opens them again. She needs to see this.

“You can stop trying to hide it,” she says slowly, weighing each word like a ball of lead. “I know about Lord Arum.”

And that… that should mean something to him. He should be surprised, or shocked, or sad, or upset in any way at all. But he just looks curious. “What about him?”

After everything it took to make herself come here, is that all he’s going to give her? Is he this good of an actor?

“ _I know,_ ” she repeats. And then, softer: “I know you were in love with him.” 

“Ah. That.” Frustratingly, his expression doesn’t change. “And?”

What does that even mean? “Damien, you killed him.”

“Of course I did,” he says easily. “He took you, didn’t he? I thought you were grateful for that.”

“Is that why you’re–” She doesn’t even have the words for it. Does he blame her for what happened? Has he been holding it against her all this time? “I didn’t know. I had no idea. Angelo only gave me your letter yesterday.”

“He shouldn’t have given it to you at all,” Damien says absently. “I told him to destroy the thing.”

“Why didn’t you say something?” she demands. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why does it matter?”

“ _It matters because you were in love with him_.”

“Yes, so you’ve said.“ His voice is cold and sharp as an iron blade, and just as impersonal. “And now he’s dead, and the problem is resolved. What exactly do you want from me?”

“I want you to talk to me,” she snaps, carried to her feet by frustration. “Damien, please. I understand if you’re hurting. I understand if you’re angry. I want to help you, if you’ll just tell me how. I’m begging you, just talk to me.” He steps away, but she takes him by the arm before he can pull away. “Please, just… just speak your heart.”

Nothing prepares her for the look of disgust that crosses his face.

There is no poetry left in him– everything soft and delicate has been carved away, leaving behind something jagged and hard.

“I’m a knight, Rilla. What use do I have for my heart?”

Her hand is tight against his wrist.

There is no pulse.

* * *

 

There are some questions Rilla can’t ask in the Citadel, no matter how much she wants to. No matter how important it is that they’re answered. She can’t ask, because just voicing the question would be enough to cast suspicion on Damien. It could ruin his reputation. It could end his career. Coming from her, it might even be enough to condemn him.

She can’t do that to him. She can’t even risk it. She loves him too much, even if he’s stopped loving her.

But there are two people outside of the Queen’s Knights who would know, and fortunately, they’re due to come back any day now.

* * *

When Marc and Talfryn arrive, Rilla moves through her standard set of questions as quickly as she can– is he taking his medicine regularly, has the pain changed recently, is the dosage still working– and then she asks what she really needs to know.

”Is it possible for somebody to be a monster and not know it?”

Mark is a little bit taken aback. “Uh… is this a trick question?”

“It’s important,” she says, already digging through her supplies for ingredients. “You said monsters run on metaphors, right? What if a monster called somebody else a monster? Or made a– I don’t know, made a good enough metaphor about it? Could that turn them into one?”

“Saints, I hope not,” Marc says. “Monsters get awfully mouthy in the middle of a fight. If they could just turn you with a word like that, I’m pretty sure half the knights in the Citadel would be running around with horns and tails.”

_What makes you so sure they’re not?_ After all, wouldn’t that explain Sir Angelo’s inhuman strength? Sir Caroline’s cold-bloodedness? And Damien…

“What about someone being… I don’t know, part monster?” she asks.

Talfryn looks uncomfortable. “There are some monsters that look a little bit human. I suppose it might be… possible?”

“Yeah, but that would mean somebody actually had sex with a monster at some point.” Marc makes a face. “Ew. I mean it: _ew_.”

“But it might be possible?” Rilla asks.

“ _Ew_ ,” Marc repeats.

“Would they function like monsters, though?” she presses. “All those things you said about metaphors– would that still work on them?”

“Just thinking about it gives me the creeps,” Marc says with a shudder. “Can we stop talking about this?”

“No, we _can’t_!” And maybe Rilla felt a little too strongly about that, because the vial she was holding shatters in her hands. “Shit.”

Marc sits up, immediately on alert. Talfryn looks justifiably spooked.

“Uh… Rilla?” Marc says carefully. “Are you okay?”

“I’m…” She squeezes her eyes shut. No. No, she’s not. “I just… I have to know. There’s got to be somebody who knows.”

* * *

There _is_ someone who knows.

It took Marc and Talfryn the better part of a month to do it, but eventually they found her: a monster witch, lurking at the base of a volcano at the farthest edges of the Second Citadel’s holdings.

They give Rilla a name and a location, and she sends them on their way to look for more leads, just in case this one falls through. As soon as they’re gone, she takes what money she has saved up, locks the door, and rents a horse. And for two weeks without rest, she rides.

There’s no need to bring Marc and Talfryn with her for this. The jungle between here and the far border used to be teeming with monsters, but they’re long gone. Damien’s purge has left no survivors.

Once Rilla reaches the volcano, the witch’s home isn’t all that hard to find. The ground is packed down with paths from frequent travel, and all of them lead to a single cave, its entrance blocked by a heavy wooden door. When she reaches out to knock, it opens on its own.

That isn’t ominous at all.

“Hello?” she calls. Her voice bounces back, the echoes distorted by a thousand glass ornaments that hang from the ceiling and walls. They’re packed together, jingling and clinking in a constant atonal melody. It’s beautiful in just the right way to grate on Rilla’s nerves.

“Hello? Is anybody–”

“Yes, I’m here,” a voice croaks from right behind her. Behind Rilla stands a monster, her back bent underneath the weight of a turtle shell, her soot-gray scales cracked and dull with age. “I’ve been expecting you. Had your friends looking for me.” She approaches on slow, shuffling steps. “Tell me, what brings you here, human girl?”

Rilla rights herself. “I’m here for my fiancé.”

“Of course you are, of course you are.” She shuffles closer still, and her craggy neck stretches out until her nose is barely inches from Rilla’s face. She squints at her with all six eyes. “And tell me, who is this fiancé?”

Rilla holds the witch’s gaze. “Sir Damien the Keen.”

She’s expecting the claws that wrap around her throat. She wasn’t expecting them to come so fast, though, or to be so sharp. Tiny beads of blood rise under the point of each talon, but Rilla doesn’t move.

“Ah yes,” the witch rasps. “I’m familiar with the Scourge of the Second Citadel.” Her claws press in. “I’ve lost too many friends to his bow. Why shouldn’t I kill you right now?”

Rilla doesn’t break eye contact. “Because if you’re trying to hurt him, killing me won’t do you any good. He doesn’t care about me anymore.”

The witch’s eyes narrow to thin slits, but she doesn’t push any harder. “I’m listening.”

“It’s only a matter of time before he comes here. I intend to stop all of this– to change him back to who he used to be. But I don’t know how to do that.”

The witch raises one eyebrow ridge. “And you think I do?”

“Somebody has to. If you don’t, maybe someone else will.”

The witch croaks thoughtfully and pulls her claws away. “But you didn’t come looking for somebody else. You came here. You came to me. Surely there are human sorcerers who can answer your questions.”

“Not about monsters.” The blood is already starting to dry; Rilla resists the urge to touch her throat. “There are things humans won’t be able to tell me.”

“Go on.”

“Before he changed, Damien was told that there was something monstrous in his eyes. I thought it was just a figure of speech–”

"Peh. _Humans_ ,” the witch sneers. “There is no such thing as _just_ a figure of speech.”

“So he is a monster?”

“He could be. It’s impossible to be certain from so far away. And I won’t be getting any closer.”

“What about cutting out his heart?” Rilla asks. “Would that be just a figure of speech?”

“I take it you don’t mean with a knife,” the witch muses. “You’ll have to elaborate, human girl.”

From the beginning, then. “Do you know a monster named Lord Arum?”

The witch lowers her face to her hand and scratches her chin. “From the Swamp of Titan’s Bloom? Yes, I’ve heard of him. Last I heard, he was dead.”

“And Damien killed him.”

“That does sound about right,” the witch says.

“It wasn’t just that, though. Damien was–” Rilla hesitates over the words. She’s never said it out loud before; saying it to another person– to a monster– feels like betraying his secret. But she’s doing this for him. “He was in love with him.”

“Ah,” the witch cackles, looking entirely too self-satisfied. “Is that why he doesn’t care for you anymore? He left you for a lizard?”

“He didn’t leave me,” Rilla snaps before she can help herself. Carefully she softens her voice. “Lord Arum kidnapped me. And then Damien killed him.”

“He murdered his lizard lover to save his lady love. How poetic.”

“Sure, if you mean it’s got a lot of alliteration,” Rilla mutters. “But before their duel, he said he would pluck out his heart before he let something happen to me.”

“Those were his exact words?” the witch asks. “Pluck out is heart?”

This, at least, Rilla is prepared for. She takes Damien’s poem from her pocket and hands it over. “He wrote this the day before the duel.”

“Did he now?” The witch reaches into her pocket and pulls out an elaborate set of spectacles, its six glasses barely held together with its wire frame. She perches the whole thing on her nose before she starts reading over Damien’s sonnets. “And you think that’s what changed him?”

“He was different after that,” Rilla says. "He hunted monsters before, but he was never this ruthless. He stopped talking to me. He abandoned his rivalry with his best friend. Everything he used to love doesn’t seem to matter anymore.”

The witch tilts her head down and peers at her over the lenses. “Has it crossed your mind that it might be grief? Maybe he resents you.”

“That’s the first thing I thought of,” Rilla says. “I tried for months to get him to talk to me. So did Sir Angelo. But he’s not sad or resentful or morose. But he acts like there’s nothing to talk about. He acts like all of this doesn’t even matter to him.”

“Sorrow can manifest in strange ways,” the witch says, which is the opposite of helpful. Does she think Rilla didn’t know that? Does she think she would have come out all this way before she tried _talking_ to him?

“He doesn’t have a pulse,” she bursts out. _That_ gets the witch’s attention. “When he gets hurt, he doesn’t bleed. It oozes a little, but there’s no pressure behind it. He doesn’t show any other signs of low blood pressure or a heart condition, but there’s no pulse to go with it. His heart is just… gone.”

The witch steeples her claws together. "Interesting. Maybe you do have a point.”

“So how do I put his heart back?”

The witch sets down her glasses and begins shuffling away. “There’s a practice among the wisest and most powerful monsters– pluck out your heart and hide it in a box somewhere, and so long as the heart live, you will never truly die.”

“So if I find the box–”

The witch extends her neck to scowl at Rilla over her shoulder. “Didn’t you hear me, human girl? It’s a practice of the magically powerful, and your knight is no such thing. When he killed Lord Arum, he didn’t hide his heart away– he destroyed it. There is nothing left to return to him.” Slowly she turns around to face Rilla properly again. “But it does mean he isn’t immortal. If his heart is destroyed, then he can still be killed.”

Rilla’s stomach twists. “Is there another way?”

The witch smiles grimly. “Too much for you, I see.”

Yes, it is.

“Damien’s killed hundreds of monsters who are better equipped to fight than I am. I already told you, he doesn’t care about me. If I tried to fight him, he’d shoot me down in a nonexistent heartbeat. I’m asking you if there’s another way.”

The witch nods thoughtfully. “His heart is destroyed, and so it cannot be returned to him– but what has been done might still be undone. But to do that, you must go to a time before it was destroyed.”

No. Time doesn’t work that way. But the human body can’t operate without a beating heart, either. It’s a bit late to start question the science of these things. “You can do that?”

“It’s possible, perhaps. But it is also very dangerous. And…” Her stare lingers on Rilla’s for several long seconds. “It will hurt.”

“I’m not afraid of pain.”

“You may die.”

Rilla grits her teeth. “I already told you I’m not afraid.”

The witch nods. “Then I suggest you get comfortable. This will take a while.”

* * *

For days the witch blows long tubes of glass over the lava vents in the heart of the mountain, chanting words that might be a spell or a prayer or something in between. Rilla watches her until her eyes burn from staring into the white-hot light, but she can’t make sense of the elaborate network of bulbs and pipes that wind over and under and through each other. Even when it’s finished, it’s incomprehensible.

“What is it?” she asks.

“Isn’t it obvious?” the witch croaks. “It’s a water clock– in a manner of speaking.”

“I don’t see any water.” So far it’s just empty glass.

“Of course not. Water’s got a particular magic to it, you know. It’s good for a lot of things, human girl, but not what you’re after. No– you need something more personal.” She sets the water clock on the stone floor between them. “Give me your arm.”

In a manner of speaking. Right. Because this isn’t a water clock at all, is it?

“It’s a blood clock,” Rilla says quietly.

“Catching on already, I see.” The witch smiles as her dagger sinks into Rilla’s arm. Blood wells from the wound, dripping into the open mouth of the device. “You will want to stop to catch you breath, but don’t. The spell will only work once. The moment you interrupt it, it will be broken.”

“How would I even do that?” Rilla asks through gritted teeth. She’s losing more blood than is safe. Already she’s feeling light-headed.

“By letting go,” the witch says. “Whatever you do, don’t let go until it’s taken you to where you need to be. That’s the most important thing. Don’t let go.” She squeezes Rilla’s arm tightly, just below the elbow. It takes Rilla a few moments too long to realize that she’s applying pressure to stop the bleeding. Rilla’s blood stains the inside walls of the clock, filling the lowest of its chambers.

The witch pushes a cork stopper into the top of the clock. “Hold on tightly, human girl. You’ll need to hurry, before the blood congeals.” She bends over the clock and pushes the pendulum. Rilla can only see it clearly for a moment before the whole thing becomes an indiscernible trickle, but the blood is flowing _up_.

She doesn’t have time to think about how that’s impossible before she’s hit by the pain.

She doubles over, clutching the delicate glass in her hands. She can feel it sucking the life out of her, pulling the blood from her veins and the marrow from her bones. It’s agony, and she can’t even catch her breath to gasp.

The witch is moving away, shuffling backwards toward the lava vent– and then the entire cave slides under Rilla’s feet, twisting around her while she stands still. And then she’s out of the witch’s cave and in the jungle, and then a village inn, and back in the jungle, and another inn. It keeps going faster, faster– so fast it leaves her nauseous, but she doesn’t dare let go of the clock to vomit. Day turns into night and back into day until they become nothing but flashes of light and dark as the world whirls around her, and all the while the clock sucks her dry.

It hurts. Oh saints, it hurts so much. And maybe worst of all, she knows she can stop this. All she has to do is let go, and the spell will end. Tears are leaking from her eyes and sweat is slippery on her palms, but she tightens her grip. She won’t let go. She can’t.

She doesn’t know how long she’s been holding onto the clock, but she recognizes the keep, the barracks, the moment when she confronted Damien about his poem, and she feels a wave of despair. That was months ago– but it was months after the duel.

She isn’t even halfway there.

It’s getting hard to stay upright. Her knees are shaking, her vision is spotting, and the clock keeps taking from her.

_You may die,_ the witch warned her.

She was right. This was too much. It’s too far. She should let go, get some rest, go find the witch and try again when she’s better prepared for this.

Her grip tightens on the glass. If she stops now, she won’t ever be able to make herself try again.

She’s getting dizzy as day and night flash around her, and she sinks to her knees. She needs to hold on. Just hold on a little longer.

She can feel oblivion moving in around her, sweeping away the edges of her consciousness, but she clings to the clock. She needs to hold on just a little longer. Just a little longer.

“Please,” she whispers to whatever saints can hear her. “Please, just let me save him.” She doesn’t even know if her mouth is forming the words anymore. Her hands slide on the clock, and she tightens her grip–

and the clock shatters.

Broken glass carves into her hands. There’s blood– saints, there’s so much blood– and just as fast, there’s not nearly enough. She should be drenched in the stuff, but it’s just gone, except what’s seeping from the fresh gashes in her hands.

“What?” hisses a voice. “Where did that glass come from?”

She staggers and sways– wasn’t she on her knees just now?– and a pair of scaly hands reach between the bars of the thistle cage and catch her before she can fall into the thorns.

She looks up. Shadows are swirling at the edge of her vision, but she sees the monster before her clearly. A lizard with violet eyes.

Lord Arum.

With a burst of strength, she grabs him by the cowl and yanks him closer. The glass digging into her clenched fists delivers a fresh burst of pain, but it drags her a little further from unconsciousness.

“Get Damien,” she commands.

“What are– do you really think you’re in a position to make demands? You’re my prisoner.” He tries to step back, but she isn’t letting go. “Stop that. Your hands–”

“I don’t care,” she snarls. “I don’t. fucking. care. I just traveled through time and I’m pretty sure I got part of my soul siphoned away by a fucking _metaphor_ – so you are going to _get. Damien. Now._ ” 

He stares at her for a few moments, his expression unreadable. Rilla’s about to tell him to quit standing around and go already, but the thistle cage rises overhead. He must have done something to it during their staring contest. It’s hard for her to tell what; the dark fog is creeping deeper into her vision, and it’s getting hard to focus. The burst of energy she had is running out.

Outside, Damien calls him out to fight, but his voice is filtering through the swamp and into the house, and Rilla can’t make out the exact words of his challenge.

“There’s no time for that,” Arum shouts back. “Come quickly! Your Rilla– she’s–”

Rilla cringes. All the shouting makes her head feel like it’s going to split. If he has to shout, could he at least let go of her first? She tries to step back, and immediately her knees give out underneath her. She would hit the floor if not for the clawed hands still holding her upright.

No. She can’t collapse. Not now.

The door bursts open under the force of a kick, and there he is: the Scourge of the Second Citadel. His eyes are cold and hard. His gritted teeth are bared. His bow is drawn.

“What have you done to her?” he snarls, every bit as inhuman as the monster in front of him, and he draws his bow.

“Damien–” Rilla starts.

“It’s alright, Rilla.” His voice is cold as steel. “This ends now.” He draws the arrow back to his ear.

“No!” she shouts, throwing her arms into the air. “Damien, if there’s any part of you that still loves me, you’ll stop this now.”

Damien jerks back as if he’s been slapped. “Rilla?” His voice cracks, startled and confused and hurt.

She forgot his voice could do that.

Relief washes over her, and it drags away the last of the adrenaline. Her vision blurs. She doesn’t have much time.

“Promise me you won’t hurt him,” she says.

“But–”

“ _Promise me, Damien._ ”

It’s the last thing she remembers before the world goes dark.

* * *

Rilla wakes up feeling like she’s been trampled. Her head is killing her, her hands are worse, and she can’t even move, caught in a bone-deep exhaustion.

She catches a trace of conversation from another room:

“…didn’t. One moment she was fine, and then I turned around and she was… don’t know where the glass came from… she was saying something about time…”

* * *

The next time Rilla wakes, it’s because of a gentle hand tucking the hair out of her face. Damien’s voice is a murmur, as soft and steady as the lapping of waves on sand, but Rilla recognizes bits and pieces of prayer.

Her eyes flutter open. Damien is sitting over her bedside. He looks haggard, still in his armor, though he’s taken off his archer’s glove, and it looks like it weighs heavily on him. But when he sees her shift, his whole face lights up.

“Rilla,” Damien whispers. “Thank the saints’ mercy. How are you feeling, my love?”

Still heavy and empty and in pain, but that doesn’t matter right now. She can’t remember the last time he called her that. But she has to be sure.

“That depends,” she rasps. “Do you have a pulse?” She reaches for his hand, but stops when her own comes into view. It’s almost entirely wrapped in bandages, and she can smell the familiar oily aroma of salve.

Gently he takes her hand by the wrist and eases it back down. “Yes, Rilla. I’m alright.”

“Can you check anyway?” she asks. “Just… humor me.”

He looks confused but sympathetic, and he sets two fingers against his jugular. “There it is, just as always.”

Rilla lets out a long sigh. He’s alright. It worked.

For several long moments he’s quiet. He opens his mouth, then shuts it again before he makes a decision. “Rilla, I– I must speak my heart. But perhaps later would be more appropriate. After you’ve had your rest.”

“Now is fine,” she says. She’s gone too long without it.

“What you said before–” He hesitates, worrying over the words in his mind. “’If there was any part of me that still loves you’... Rilla, if my– my behavior has made you doubt me, or– or the strength of my feeling for you–”

“No, Damien. It’s not that. A lot has happened. I promise I’ll explain. But…”

“Later,” Damien says gently. “After you’ve had a chance to rest.”

“We’ve been trying to piece it together ourselves, though I don’t think any of us understand it very well. Sir Angelo has given up trying, but Lord Arum has a few theories.”

“He’s still alive, then,” Rilla breathes.

“I did promise.” Damien bites his lip. His eyes fall to Rilla’s hands, heavy with guilt.

“It’s okay.” She can’t take his hand, but she can set hers on top of his, and right now that’s enough. “I know you’re in love with him.”

The color drains from his face. “Rilla– Rilla, forgive me– I never meant to– Rilla, my love, my heart belongs to you, it always has, please, you must believe me–”

“I know. Trust me, I know.” She waits until he raises his eyes again, and she holds his gaze. “And besides, right now I’m just glad you _can_ be in love with him. I’ve seen the alternative.” She tries for a wry smile, but mostly it comes out tired. “We’ll work something out, okay? We’ll talk about this.”

“But not now.” Damien leans in and presses a kiss to her forehead. “When you’re well.”

She’s not going to let him put it off for long– she’s wasted enough time being miserable, and she’s not planning on doing even a fraction of that again– but maybe it can wait until she’s had a little more sleep.

After all, she knows he’ll still be there in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> DisasterScenario illustrated this fic for me. You can find her pic over [here](http://disasterscenario.tumblr.com/post/165466000684/heartless-part-1).
> 
> If you're curious about the water clock, I based it on [this](https://c1.staticflickr.com/3/2815/10487375946_f61f884f93_b.jpg) [beautiful](http://farm8.static.flickr.com/7204/6908772513_0f19c1d1c7.jpg) [monstrosity](https://spin.atomicobject.com/wp-content/uploads/2568448161_18b8ebf746_b-532x800.jpg) of [engineering](http://i.i.cbsi.com/cnwk.1d/i/tim/2011/02/04/fmimg1187822212737656375.jpg).


End file.
